


Metal warps worse than bone (but they can both be fixed the same)

by Garecc, Gunpowderdtim (Garecc)



Series: Ready, Aim, Fire [16]
Category: The Mechanisms (Band)
Genre: (sort of), Angst, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Major Character Injury, No beta we die like everyone other than Carmilla, Sensory overload of a sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:00:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24623596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garecc/pseuds/Garecc, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garecc/pseuds/Gunpowderdtim
Summary: There isnt enough angst about Brian being in the sun and the aftermath.So i wrote some.Brian post his century long stay in a star isn't exactly alright.
Relationships: (Not much but enough to bother tagging), Drumbot Brian & Gunpowder Tim
Series: Ready, Aim, Fire [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1799860
Comments: 12
Kudos: 168
Collections: Brian Soup





	Metal warps worse than bone (but they can both be fixed the same)

**Author's Note:**

> Welp I guess i wrote a mechs fic
> 
> (I say like i don't have about 10k in other stuff)
> 
> Ive aquired mechanisms brain worms. I ran out of plays of lost in the cosmos so I bought the discography.

[Error code 34747. Heat regulation fan 37 not responding. Run diagnostics?]

[Yes/No]

[ **Yes** ]

[Error code 47790. Processors 4a, 4b,16a, 17b, 24b, 37a, 42b, 47a, 50a, 50b, 53a, 58a, 64b, 78b, 88a, 88b, 106a, 177b, 178a, 179a, 279a are offline. Reboot?]

[Yes/No]

[ **Yes** ]

[Reboot failed. Try again?]

[Yes/No]

[ **Yes** ]

[Fatal Error. Left arm not responding. Unable to estimate damage. Run diagnostics?]

[Yes/No]

[ **Yes** ]

[Critical Error. Code 57889. Balance regulators compromised. Manual Repair necessary. Eject?]

[Yes/No]

[ **Yes** ]

[Fatal Error. Shutting down processors 284-315 to preserve files.]

[Critical Error. Memory circuits 27c-59b are not responding. Reboot?]

[Yes/No]

[ **Yes** ]

[Error. Run diagnostics?]

[Error. Reboot?]

[Error. Close program?]

[Fatal Error. Repair necessary.]

[Error.]

[Critical Error.]

[Error.]

[Error.]

[Error.]

Error codes bounced around his unresponsive ever-loading, crashing, frozen processors as his body rebuilt itself from fried neurons and agonized atoms set alight by the nuclear chaos in the heart of a dying star.

Yes. Reboot. Refresh. Run diagnostics. Yes. Yes. Yes. Repair corrupted files. Repair hard drive 48c. Repair. Run diagnostics. Refresh. Reboot. 

It hurt. Every warped piece of metal bent and rusted out of shape sent error codes of agony through his quickly overheating processors as he tried to start everything, get everything back online as absolutely nothing ran properly. The warped and twisted metal of just about everything sent frantic screaming errors through already overloaded crashing systems.

Everything was broken.

And Brian couldn't think around the yes yes yes yes reboot repair refresh.

Diagnostics gave agonized pings and pop-ups of issue after issue of warning of corrupted file after file and he didn't know what way was up what was was down so Brian just kept selecting [ **Yes** ] reboot [ **Yes** ] refresh [ **Yes** ] run diagnostics [ **Yes** ] [ **Yes** ] [ **Yes** ]

He was on some level vaguely aware of the hands unscrewing his face, of the voice shushing him and soothing him. 

Of them prying apart the warped and mostly melted brass shell that made up his skin around the densely packed processors and coils of wires that act as his nerves.

As his balance maintainment gauges were reset, directions came back into existence, up became a concept written in 1's and 0's as someone's deft hands slowly fixed and repaired the endless agonized machinery that is Brian's body. 

Welding wires into place and taking out what was rusted beyond salvage. Rusted beyond recognition.

His optical systems wernt responding. His eyelids were stuck shut and his facial expression frozen.

Rusted or merely warped? The error codes buried under the thousands of almost identical strands of panicked code were too lost to examine and Brian was too busy trying to reboot processors to even think about a search.

Auditory was just giving static and feedback vaguely shaped like they could even be words, and Brian just focused on yes reboot yes refresh yes end task run program run diagnostics 

[A fatal error has occured.] His arm reminded him, but was quickly swept under the complaining pings of a thousand other malfunctioning systems.

His chest was pried open now, quick-moving skilled hands rewired and fan 37 was being repaired. As the final screw tightened Brian selected reboot and it whirred into panicked overdrive as it cooled down various processors and-

Oh. He could think a bit better as those clicked online. 

More fans whirring on as mechanical thoughts strings of worried code reset rebooted and repaired.

[Crital error. Reboot?]

[Yes/No]

[ **Yes** ]

Auditory was still just static. Optical was still entirely unresponsive. 

Deft hands skillfully rewired and repaired critical systems. Critical processors rebooting as Brian's ability to think and control his mind slowly returned.

[Auditory systems offline. Recalibrate?]

He was finally prompted.

[Yes/No]

[ **Yes** ] he selected without hesitation or thought.

The sound startled him, frantic voices filtering in as Tim ordered someone to hand him tools as Nastya read instructions. (She would have been the one fixing him if anyone else could reliably read the docs handwriting)

It hurt.

"Brian? Brian can you hear us?" Tim asked - hands pausing a moment, hardly a moment. "Is auditory back online?- a light came on."

Static was all that came out of his voicebox as he attempted speech.

"Fuck." Tim swore. "Ill fix that after this - okay? Nod if- Uh. Fuck you can't move yet can you. Um. If you can hear this we're trying to fix you up."

[Run diagnostics on vocal systems.] Brian tried, everything buffering as the command went through. It was like thinking through a magnifying glass underwater. 

[Critical Error. Manual repair required.] Diagnostics replied, falling in line with every other pop-up error message in his quickly overheating processors.

More static spilled from Brian's vocal cords in a soundless scream as error error fatal error error critical failure bounced through his spinning head.

Tim was uncharacteristically gentle as he welded wires and replaced damaged circuits. 

"Shit- shit Brian there's so much fucking rust. I don't know if you can hear me but I can't salvage any of this. I just need to take it out. I'll- I'll do that later okay? When you can respond." 

* * *

Eventually everything salvageable was salvaged. Rewired and rebooted. Everything that could still run running as smoothly as a broken computer can run.

It hurt.

Everything hurt, everything was wrong and warped and buffering and there were seconds between thoughts between commands and Brian _hurt_ in the way a disobedient laptop hurts when you open chrome too quickly. Brian hurt in the way a computer hurts when you turn shaders on and render distance up in a Minecraft save. Brian hurt in the way a computer hurts when there isn't enough space to think between agonized commands trying to run a program too powerful for the hardware. 

But he was conscious enough to think beyond the [Error] [Error] [Critical Error] [Error]

"Brian- hey."

Brian managed to look at Tim beyond the unresponsive joints and grinding rust. 

"We're going to fix this. Okay? Nastya's making the new parts. Just hang tight."

"Okay." Brian managed, though the rust made his voice click and scratch. 

Tim took his right hand. Left arm still not responding. Couldn't feel anything past the shoulder. There was nothing but rust inside the joint. 

Rust had eaten too much of him in Camelot, too much of him was burnt iron oxide in the nuclear heart of a still-dying star.

His chest currently sat pried open waiting for Nastya's replacement parts. His left arm detached entirely save for the primary nerve cable, not that he could feel anything.

His lower body was still refusing to receive any signals, refusing to move. 

There just wasn't enough of him in working order to run it.

"Just- it's going to be fine." Tim squeezed his hand and Brian was just thankful he could feel it. That someone was here. "We're- we're going to fix you, Brian. I fucking promise."

"Don't worry." Brian's voice rattles like a loose bolt. Rattles like a blown out speaker. Tim winces

"It's a tad fucking late for that. Can you activate sleep mode or..?"

"I- can try? Why would- why is that relevant?"

"I don't see why you would want to be conscious right now if you don't need to be. With the whole everything being broken."

"I don't want to be alone again."

"Oh god. Yeah. Alright."

* * *

There were so many error messages, and every diagnostics check brought more pings of broken and breaking pieces

His lower body, hips and down wasn't responding whatsoever. Wires cut like broken nerves, and it would take new metal to get it working again. New parts.

Until Nastya managed to create the parts necessary, he wasn't moving anytime soon.

(Usually, the gears rebuilt themselves as they were cleaned, but between the sun and the rust they just... Didn't. They started but where the metal warped the healing ended. It hurt, in a far more physical way this time.)

Tim had repaired his balance. And Brian could sit up. Could talk in a rusted approximation of his voice. 

Tim kept a hand on his arm, a reminder, a promise that he was still there and not going to leave and Brian sort of wanted to sob. 

Everything hurt, and with every major error message, every [Critical Error. Manual repair necessary.] Brian would flinch and Tim would ask and of course, it's _wrong_ to lie.

So Tim would fix it. And he would grow infintesimally closer to whole.

* * *

Brian stared into the mirror. Flexing his hands. Flexing every joint.

Things wobbled a bit, some systems still screamed frantic errors as Brian moved, walked, thought more complicated thoughts than [ **Yes**.]

But for the most part it was fine. If someone asked he would be able to say it was fine. And he could repair the rest in time.

So for now Brian sat in the bridge, ended every task that would end with his stoic mask breaking into frantic sobs as his churning terrified emotions swam under the brass plates that made his skin.

[Tremble from fear > End task? **Yes** /No.]

[Start crying > End task? **Yes** /No.]

Brian was fine. He stared out the windows of the bridge, and just stared out into the void.

He was on the Aurora now. He's safe, not in the churning nuclear chaos of Avalon, and if he refuses to go on a space station anytime soon, it's fine because trauma is like that. 

Brian stares into the void, and dares to hope, just for a moment it will never claim him again.

He sits in his pilots chair, and with recently repaired hands, plots their course.

They have a gig soon, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I should be writing that tma Tim fic but instead I'm writing about Brian.
> 
> I might be a lesbian but im straight for Tim's of both gunpower and stoker varieties
> 
> EDIT: okay actually I'm bi and GPT made me realize that he's so pretty wanna kiss


End file.
